


Mob Mentality

by czarina_kathryn



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Fake Marriage, First Time, Injury, M/M, Romance, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-10 18:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/czarina_kathryn/pseuds/czarina_kathryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mob mentality is a fundamental part of civilization and John knew that was a fact. Then he met Dr. Rodney McKay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mob Mentality

 

Mob mentality is a fundamental part of civilization and John knew that was a fact. He fruitlessly wished that it wasn't true, but it's not like he could just get rid of civilization and expect there to be no consequences. So John resigned himself to it. He even tried to fit in with the others of the world that went about their lives blissfully unaware that they really were a predictable lot of idiots. So, in keeping with that, when John stood at an intersection he didn’t push the crosswalk button, he simply assumed someone else already had (which everyone else was also assuming) and thus, wasted quite a bit of time waiting for someone who hadn't bought into the whole civilization shindig to push the button for the rest of the world.

 

Lying, wheezing against a shady tree that bordered a busy sidewalk, John wished that one of those people who push crosswalk buttons would come by and offer to help. It is, after all, a fact of mob mentality that if someone is lying hurt next to twenty people no one will come to his aid because they'll assume someone else will. If there was only one person, or perhaps as many as four, he might have a sporting chance of being helped since they weren't a mob yet and thus, lacking in its mentality. Of course, this hypothetical person adrift from the mob would also have to be decent human being, a specimen that was becoming more and more rare.

 

Not that it really mattered, he decided, since the sidewalk was busy and after quick glances at him the walkers would hurry on by thinking that someone after them would help him. He ineffectually tried to lever himself to his feet again and was rewarded with a sharp stabbing pain in his leg, ribs, head, and just everywhere. He wasn't surprised since that had been the result of the past three attempts. Now he was beginning to worry that further attempts at getting up would render him unconscious. He leaned his head back against the tree and reminded himself that he was lucky he'd even managed to get that emergency beaming device working. He was also lucky that it hadn't landed him in the middle of the desert or the ocean (not that his chances for being helped here were any better, but it was the principle of the thing). He really should be dead, so the fact that he was slowly going to bleed to death next to a sidewalk somewhere sunny, with a bunch of palm trees and well-dressed people wasn't so bad.

 

John opened his eyes and to his surprise, he found that his field of vision was dominated not by stucco and greenery, but by a frowning man, who seemed to be dissecting him with his rather intense blue eyes.

 

"You need help," the man announced.

 

John opened his mouth to voice agreement, but his throat was dry and he couldn't find the energy to form the words. The man frowned even more.

 

"Luckily for you, I happen to live right there," he said, pointing at the store that stood beyond the tree.

 

John must have managed to look puzzled because the man further explained, "I'm up above the store. I'm hardly ever there, if you must know, so the fact it gets noisy and smells odd barely registers. Besides that's what makes it cheap," he said, allowing his frown an instant of respite that produced a sardonic and all the same dazzling smile.

 

"I'm going to have to carry you, aren't I?" The man said, with a tremendous sigh that sounded like he was taking the weight of the world upon his shoulders. John couldn't disagree, so he did his best to help as the man, who was a tad shorter than him but surprisingly solid, pulled him up and placed John's arm over his shoulder. John broke into a coughing fit that racked his chest with pain, and would have collapsed back to the ground if the man hadn't gotten a solid hold on the remains of his burnt jacket and forcibly held him upright.

 

"You're going to need one of those fake doctors aren't you?" The man said, heaving an even bigger sigh.

 

"Fake?" John managed to wheeze out, hoping that this man didn't really think he needed a voodoo doctor or something.

 

"MDs. They are so completely far from real doctors I can't even begin to tell you how unfair it is that they get to use the same title as a man like me. Hello, three PhDs, so trumps their one measly little MD certificate."

 

John tired desperately to suppress the laugh that the man's little tirade had caused, but was unsuccessful and he dissolved into another coughing fit. By the time he was able to look up again the man had flagged a taxi and was yelling at the driver about this being a life or death situation.

 

They made it to the hospital, which John was able to determine, through very astute sign reading, was in Pasadena, which if memory served him was a suburb of Los Angeles. His rescuer was proving to be a very ornery fellow as far as John could tell. At least if his death threats to the driver in order to make him help carry John inside were any indication. Once in the hospital the man again voiced a great deal of threats on the persons of the hospital staff (most of which seemed to concentrate around the fact he'd built an atom bomb for his eighth grade science fair project, which definitely would have convinced John to cooperate) in order to ensure prompt service.

 

John was fading in and out of consciousness at that point and all he really could think about was the ebb and flow of the man's voice ranging from outraged to disgusted and everywhere in between. It shouldn't have been comforting, not in any sense of the word, but John didn't think that he should spend what could possibly be his last seconds of life analyzing what he found nice. If he wanted to think it was nice then he damn well could. Wasn't it natural to find someone who went to the trouble of rescuing him nice anyway? John felt a needle prick into his arm and knew that these white walls could very well be the last thing he saw, that he may never wake up from the blackness he was being forced into. He forced his eyes open for one last view of the world and all he saw was burning blue eyes filled with worry. And in that moment John knew that if he lived through this, he would never be able to wait for someone else to push the crosswalk button again.

 

**ooo…ooo**

 

As it turned out, John did live. He was rather surprised by that, but he figured that it was probably a good thing. Probably. When he woke up the first time after this surgery to find his leg in a cast and his mind fuzzy with morphine, he had wondered if being dead wouldn't be better. Then the man sitting hunched over a small end table typing furiously on a laptop caught his eye. John smiled in spite of the pain and knew that he couldn't die if someone that pissy was about. Who would dare die and risk that intense focus being turned on them in disappointment. And John just knew that dying would be seen as the worst sort of copout, even more than those 'pathetic' MDs.

 

Sometime later when he awoke with a marginally clearer head and much less pain, John immediately looked to the corner where the man was, still tapping away at his laptop.

 

"What's your name?" John rasped, after it became apparent that the man was going to remain completely engrossed in his work unless interrupted.

 

The man jerked in surprise and hit his knee on the undersized table, rattling the ten or so empty coffee cups sitting on it. That much caffeine couldn't be good for someone.

 

"Oh, oh right. It's McKay. Rodney McKay. Dr. Rodney McKay actually if you're going to be exact about it."

 

"Three PhDs, I remember," John whispered, cutting him off.

 

Dr. McKay actually gave him a full on smile for that little blessing of memory and John felt something in his chest tighten the way it only ever did when he flew. John gave him a shaky grin of his own and then looked in what must have been a longing fashion at the water glass next to his bed.

 

"Let me get that," McKay said, hurrying over to the glass and helping John lift his head to drink down a few sips. Feeling exhausted even from that John collapsed back on the bed.

 

McKay had bags under his eyes that John didn't remember being there when he'd first seen him. Of course, he'd been practically unconscious with pain at that point, but he could picture McKay clearly sans bags.

 

"How long have I been here?" John asked, his suspicion aroused.

 

McKay sighed. "Two weeks now. They didn't think you were going to make it for a while."

 

"You look tired," John said, looking for confirmation that those bags were because a certain doctor had been spending time with him, even if it was an unconscious him.

 

"Well, that could be because I am tired," McKay snapped, "My lab is full of idiots. MIT has actually put in decent proposal for the grant money I wanted. My undergrads are most likely former hoodlums recruited by admissions for the sole purpose of torturing me. And to top it off, I have to pretend I'm married to some guy who's name I don't know so that he won't die. So, yeah, I'm a bit tired. By the way, if anyone asks you're John McKay and we've been blissfully married for five years. Oh yeah, and we have fantastic sex. I only added that part for the benefit of the nurses, though."

 

"I beg your pardon? Married?" John spluttered.

 

Another monumental sigh was heaved by McKay and he rolled his eyes quite expressively before saying, "There was a bit of a to do with them needing approval to do something to your … ribs or was it your leg? Not important," McKay said, dismissing it with a sweep of his hand, "But since I didn't know who you were and they were going to refuse to treat you, I just decided to pretend you were my husband. It made things a lot easier. And look here you are, nice and alive. Don't worry," McKay added, "We only have to pretend until you get out of here. That nasty little bugger of a man, Beckett, he's your doctor, he keeps eyeing me like he doesn't believe we're married."

 

"No rings. And it isn't legal," John informed him. Easily seeing it from this Beckett's point of view.

 

"I always lose my ring and you're not into open displays of affection, so we never wear them. And, hello, Canadian here. Unlike this bigoted country Canada accepts every type of marriage."

 

John was so startled by McKay's rapid-fire responses that he couldn't help laughing and his chest felt like it was, if not on fire, at least being singed. He groaned and McKay was instantly by his side, repeatedly hitting the button to call the nurses, as if the number of times he hit it would make the nurse come more quickly. John would have pointed out the illogic of McKay's actions if breathing at all had been possible. Breathing did have to take precedence over snarky comments, after all. Although, John wasn't sure McKay would agree seeing as he didn't seem to need to breathe at all when he was talking.

 

The nurse finally showed up and didn't bat an eyelash at McKay, who was busy waxing poetic on the incompetence of the medical system. That led John to assume McKay had been acting like that for the duration of his stay. Two weeks, now that had to take some backbone to put up with.

 

"I'm glad you're up, John," She told him with a smile, "Perhaps Dr. Beckett will start you on some pudding tonight. I'm sure you'd like that."

 

John gave her a weak smile and hoped that the pudding would be chocolate. She patted him on the arm and leveled a glare at McKay, "And you, sir, should try to avoid making him launch into another coughing fit."

 

McKay stopped in the midst of his tirade to stare at her, remaining uncharacteristically silent for a moment.

 

"I won't. I promise. Don't worry, John, I'm sorry and I won't let it happen again. Alright, darling?" McKay finished, chucking him on the cheek.

 

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes and replied with equal solemnity, "Thank you so much, smooch-ums."

 

McKay's eyes practically bugged out and John smirked at him as the nurse laughed and let herself out of the door.

 

"Smooch-ums?" McKay said, infusing the word with every bit of disdain in his body, which was quite a lot.

 

"Well, I figured you deserved it since you weren't even smart enough to get my name off of my tags," John told him.

 

"Tags? You're military? Shit, are you going to kill me?" McKay gushed, backing away like he expected John to jump out of his hospital bed, cast and all, and attack him.

 

"I'm not going to kill you," John said, wondering if McKay had a problem with the military.

 

"Really? I thought military people hated normal people with 'different' sexual orientations."

 

That nearly got a laugh out of John, but he suppressed it, the memory of the coughing fit still clear in his mind. "No, we don't. Well, not all of us," John amended faithfully, "Besides we did just revoke the don't ask don't tell policy, didn't we? So we can't be all bad."

 

McKay seemed to sag with relief and scooted back closer to John. "Well, thank god. I'm far to valuable to the world to be killed by some idiot on a homophobic rampage."

 

"I'm far to laid back for that," John told him, not to mention pumped full of drugs and still suffering from that good old throbbing pain.

 

"Yes, well, obviously don't mention the military thing to anyone or it will blow our cover. And for your information," McKay said, shaking his finger at John like he was a rather slow undergrad, "You've obviously lost your tags. I did try to figure out who you were before I went with John Doe. And do let me point out that you clearly have an incorrect assumption about geniuses: that they lack common sense, which, may I say, is far from true in my case. If I want to know something I'll find out even if it only requires me to do sensible things. I much prefer something a tad more exciting. Now if I'd had to diffuse a ticking bomb and then correctly decipher an algorithm all in under … oh, ten minutes or so, now that would be a challenge suited to my genius."

 

John felt himself getting sleepy as whatever the nurse had pumped into his IV began taking effect. McKay didn't seem to notice, so John just let his eyes drift shut as McKay puttered on about his genius, which John figured must be pretty good, maybe even Sam Carter good. Especially if so much as half of what he was saying was true.

 

"Oh, right, I meant to ask," McKay said, causing John to flutter his eyes open once more, "What is your name?"

 

John gave him a sleepy grin, "John, actually. John Sheppard."

 

And with that he drifted off to the sound of McKay telling no one in particular that the name 'John' seemed to suit him.

 

**ooo…ooo**

 

Dr. Beckett, Carson as he insisted John call him (much to Rodney's annoyance), turned out to be a nice Scottish fellow with a propensity for calling John 'son.' He kept John in the hospital for another week after he awakened, allowing his ribs to more or less get themselves back together, which happily ended his coughing fits. John was very grateful for that since it allowed him to laugh at Rodney as much as he wanted. Rodney was a very funny person, not that he was trying to be, but that just made it even funnier.

 

There was just something about hearing Rodney call him 'cupcake' that made him need to laugh. The pet names had actually devolved into a competition of sorts to see who could come up with the most atrocious one. John had won, but only by the skin of his teeth. Rodney had one twisted little imagination when it came to one-upping a person. John had hit gold, though, with 'sugar dumpling,' which they agreed, for the benefit of the world at large, simply couldn't be topped. John's head also seemed to be doing better (good-bye concussion) and the stitches would be coming out easily enough in a few weeks. The only problem left was his leg and there wasn't much Carson could do about that.

 

John had felt guilty about letting Rodney take him and his rather unwieldy leg home, but Rodney hadn't apparently considered there could be another option. As soon as Carson had mentioned leaving, Rodney had immediately interrupted with questions concerning brands of crutches, appropriate meals, exercise regimens, and possible freak catastrophes. So John was loaded by Rodney into a taxi and dropped off next to the familiar tree he'd been leaned up against three weeks ago. With Rodney's help (and his new crutches) he managed to hobble up the steps to Rodney's apartment and get himself over to the couch, where he had a feeling he'd be spending quite a bit of time. He could also tell he was going to come to hate the stupid crutches, no matter how much Carson had recommended them.

 

John zonked out on the couch and woke up a few hours later to an empty apartment. He shoved the itchy wool blanket that someone (undoubtedly Rodney) had put over him out of the way and levered himself up into a sitting position. His eyes fell on the table where there was a sizable stack of magazines and a small little sign that said:

 

_Gone to torture undergrads. Will come home later with dinner. Knock yourself out with the physics periodicals (not literally, cupcake), and we'll find you more appropriate reading tomorrow._

_Rodney_

_P.S. Your crutches are under the table._

 

John smiled and carefully folded the note into his pocket. Then he turned his gaze to the stack of physics periodicals with hesitant trepidation. It had been a long time since he'd even ventured near the realm of science and math (well, personally speaking, at work there was science and math everywhere, but no one bothered him about it). MIT and that mathematics minor were so far off they might as well be in another galaxy. But it wasn't like he had anything else to read, or anything else to do in general.

 

Pushing the stack over, John spread the magazines out on the low coffee table, so that he could see some of the covers. As it turned out they weren't all physics after all and John extracted an old issue of a mathematics journal out of the pile with an odd sense of déjà vu that brought to mind the sour taste of coffee drunk at five in the morning to stave off sleep long enough to get a term paper done. He settled back on the couch and flipped it open, figuring that he could at least read himself back to sleep.

 

When Rodney got home about three hours later bearing gifts of Chinese take out and blockbuster movies, John was in the middle of reworking one of the proofs in what he thought would be a more elegant manner. After all, mathematics wasn't about getting the answer so much as getting the answer in a nice, pretty, concise way. John figured that someone had probably already done the proof he was working on, but, god, it felt brilliant to finally let those long out of use math neurons fire in his brain.

 

Rodney plopped himself down on the couch beside John and propped his feet up on the table as he began eating right out of the lo mien carton.

 

"Hey," John protested, "I was going to eat some of that."

 

Rodney looked askance at him. "Well, who's going to stop you?"

 

"You're eating it right out of the carton," John reminded him.

 

"So?"

 

"So, that can't be sanitary. Surely you've heard of germs? Nasty little bugs that make you get sick?"

 

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Rodney told him, flicking his fork in a dismal (a habit John noticed he executed with amazing frequency), "It's not like I'm deathly ill."

 

Rodney went back to the food and began making his happy-food noises that were somewhere in between a mumble and sigh. John just grinned and finished off the line he was working on before appropriating the sesame chicken.

 

"No lemon chicken?" John asked playfully as Rodney moved on to the fried rice. Rodney whipped around and stared at John like he'd just suggested Rodney jump off a bridge.

 

"You … you … I can't think of anything right now, but when I do you'll be in for it," Rodney said, apparently having a bit of trouble getting over his indignation.

 

John laughed and offered Rodney some of his chicken to make up for his teasing. Rodney glared for a second, but who could ignore the allure of sesame chicken? With an expressive eye roll, Rodney conceded the point and deftly snagged a piece of chicken out of the carton with his fork (apparently even geniuses couldn't figure out chop sticks).

 

There was something unhealthy about how much he liked knowing Rodney was eating out of his carton of chicken, John decided, and he could only hope that it wouldn't end up with him being called cupcake for the rest of his life.

 

**ooo…ooo**

 

John didn't bring it up until two days later. He didn't want to, even though he knew he should, knew he had to. But for once in his life he did something he wanted because he had a broken leg, he was living on a crazy man's couch, and why not? So he waited two days. They were a fun two days too. Rodney apparently thought John's closet mathematician thing was adorable and was fueling it by stealing math journals from his fellow professors, so it wasn't like John didn't have other things to think about. But in the end, as always, duty won out, so he set aside the math problems Rodney had given him to work on and took a moment to just look at Rodney. Rodney, being himself and entirely engrossed in some paper he was working on, didn't notice, but John just kept looking, taking in the face that had become so familiar to him.

 

"Rodney," he said quietly, almost hoping Rodney wouldn't hear him.

 

"Yes," Rodney said, not looking up from his work.

 

"I … I need to contact some people that I work with." Rodney looked up at that, his eyes widening, startled by the jolt back to reality.

 

"Right, right, I mean, of course. Well, my phone is your phone, be my guest," Rodney said, gesturing in the general direction of his ancient rotary phone. Apparently the advent of cell phones had come at such a time that Rodney never bought himself a new home phone and continued to subsist on antiquity and a top of the line camera, planner, internet capable cell phone.

 

"That's the thing," John said slowly, wondering how Rodney would feel about what he was going to say next, "I'm not from here. I have an apartment in Colorado Springs. I fly a lot of different places, but that's mainly where I am."

 

John took a breath before plunging on, "Really, though, I'm going to be useless because of my leg for weeks. So I was thinking, is there any real point in going back? I mean, it would be such a hassle to get on a plane and I really hate commercial jets, there's just something about being flown around by a person I've never met that I don't particularly like, you know? Anyway, I was thinking that maybe I could stay here and get back on my feet again without my commanding officer breathing down my neck. Not that he'd force me back on duty before I was healed, but sometimes you just don't have a choice and I know I would end up working myself to death, which wouldn't do my leg any good. Besides it'd be nice to keep on seeing Carson since he's already familiar with my case. I also have quite a bit of leave time saved up anyway …"

 

"John," Rodney said, cutting him off, "You talk too much. Of course you can stay here. Honestly, it's quite nice to have someone to talk to who'll actually talk back to me."

 

"Really?" John asked, unable to stop a huge grin from playing across him face.

 

"Yes, really," Rodney said, turning back to his work, "Now if that's all, I'm really making progress here, so I'm just going to get back …" Rodney's voice petered off in his usual fashion that indicated he was in the throes of brilliant thought and John decided not to bother him anymore.

 

Rodney closed his laptop with a satisfied sigh when it was nearing three in the morning. John flicked his eyes open from where he was stretched out with his leg propped up on Rodney's knee.

 

"I'm going to bed. You need anything?" Rodney asked, gently transferring John's leg onto a pile of pillows he was assembling to take his place.

 

"Nope," John replied sleepily, wearily wondering how he would ever be managing on his own.

 

"Alright, good night then. If you need anything just make large amounts of noise and I might wake up," Rodney said, tucking the blanket in around John, as if he was incapable of doing it himself. John didn't protest, though, and when Rodney absentmindedly kissed his forehead before he wandered off to his bedroom, John didn't say anything about that either.

 

He did, however, have a hard time getting to sleep and couldn't seem to stop touching his forehead like it held the answers to all of life's mysteries. But then again, maybe it did.

 

**ooo…ooo**

John put off the phone call for another three days. In the end it was only the thought that they must think he was dead that forced him into action. People seemed to die with startling frequency in the Stargate program (probably a product of the whole advanced alien weaponry thing), but that didn't mean losing a commanding officer didn't upset folks. Ford would probably be taking it hard. And perhaps Dr. Jackson too, since it had been his ass John had been saving when he was nearly disintegrated/snapped-in-half/blown-up. Oh wait, he had actually been blown up (no nearly about it) and beaten into a rather sorry pulp, but that was his job (sort of). And if he hadn't done it General O'Neil would have murdered him personally and painfully, which was really something John wanted to avoid. That man could be downright scary when he put his mind to it, and bloody hell was he protective of his scientist.

 

"So are you trying to dial using your latent psychic abilities? Because I hate to break it to you, but there is no proof psychic's even exist and everyone with half a brain knows that those supposed abilities are complete bullshit."

 

"Shut-up, Rodney," John said, tightly, not really in the mood for teasing. He'd been standing in front of the stupid phone for a good half an hour already and he was no closer to picking it up than before.

 

"Why do you work for these people if you don't like them?" Rodney asked after a few minutes of quiet. He stepped closer and peered at the phone over John's shoulder, as if together he and John could overcome the challenge it presented.

 

"I do like them for the most part. They're very smart people; you'd probably like them too. It's just I keep running through my head what I'll have to say and I know that the second I hang up they'll come for me whether I want them to or not."

 

"Are they allowed to do that?"

 

"If they think I might be mentally unhinged? Yes, they are. And wouldn't you think I had a few screws loose if I announced I wanted to recuperate with some random guy they've never heard of in a town I've never even visited before?"

 

"Well, when you put it like that," Rodney said, and John could feel his snarky smirk laced through the words. "You do realize you don't have to tell them where you are? That would probably hamper the whole 'coming to get you' thing."

 

John glanced over his shoulder at Rodney in a way meant to convey that Rodney was once again underestimating him. "I did actually think of that, Rodney. Funny thing about the people I work with, they have access to quite a bit of technology and even more importantly they know how to use it. Undoubtedly they will put those two facts to good use and track my phone call."

 

"Don't they need a minute or so to do that? They always do in the movies and on the TV shows and stuff."

 

John smirked sardonically. "The people I work with aren't quite the type you'd see on a TV show and they most certainly can track a phone call, no matter how short it is."

 

"Wait, wait, wait," Rodney said, stepping forward so that his shoulders were even with John's and snapping his fingers in the direction of the phone. He turned and pointed his finger at John. "I can do something about that," he said, and with that he was off, scurrying into his kitchen (which substituted for a garage/workshop/laboratory).

 

John hobbled after him and by the time he'd reached the doorway and was leaning heavily on his crutches, Rodney was halfway through cannibalizing what appeared to be the toaster.

 

"Does this mean no more toast for breakfast?" John asked politely, as Rodney used the exacto knife to tear off some more of the housing.

 

"I'll make you some with the neighbor's toaster," Rodney said, flicking the screwdriver he had just picked up in his characteristic dismissal.

 

"You don't have neighbor's, Rodney," John reminded him, lowering himself into one of the kitchen chairs that looked like Rodney had borrowed/stolen them from some sort of outdoor café.

 

"I'll buy a new toaster then. I didn't like this one anyway; it burnt things."

 

"That might have been because it was on the highest setting," John pointed out gently.

 

"Really?" Rodney asked, looking up from his efforts to connect the toaster components with what looked to be a light switch on steroids.

 

John nodded.

 

"Well that explains that mystery," Rodney said, with a careless shrug and went back to his work.

 

A smile broke out on John's face that felt disturbingly goofy, but he couldn't bring himself to smother it, not when Rodney had just started muttering under his breath about where he would be if he were a AA battery. John just sat back and enjoyed it, basking in Rodney's blisteringly wonderful presence.

 

Half an hour later, they were once again standing in front of the phone, this time with Rodney bouncing impatiently by his side, like a kid on Christmas morning.

 

"So this thing will keep them from being able to track the call?" John asked for what was undoubtedly the hundredth time. But the thing didn't look like it could do any such thing. In fact it looked like it needed to be thrown into a junk pile somewhere.

 

"Yes, I'm sure. I am more than sure. Just don't talk for too long, no need to put it to the test," Rodney repeated impatiently, his eyes darting from John to the phone and back.

 

John unconsciously straightened his back and stiffly leaned his crutches up against the wall, balancing on his good foot. He picked up the phone and dialed the top-secret number that would connect him to an operator at Stargate Command.

 

"State your identification code immediately," Were the first words barked at him.

 

"Sheppard, 201627126027."

 

There was a pause then, "Identification confirmed. Welcome back from the dead. What can I do for you Colonel Sheppard?"

 

"Is the General on duty?" John said, with a sideways glance at Rodney, wondering if he should be worrying about naming General O'Neil.

 

"Which one, sir?"

 

"O'Neil would be nice," John said, allowing the tech on the other end of the line to answer the question for him.

 

"Yes, sir, he is on duty. He’s in a meeting right now. Shall I try to patch you through to the conference room?"

 

"Thank you, I'd appreciate that,” John drawled.

 

As John listened to the tone of the phone ringing he glanced over at Rodney, who had pulled a wall clock out from somewhere and was apparently monitoring the time of his call. Rodney looked up and John mouthed, "How much longer do I have?"

 

Rodney shrugged and said, "I could make a number up if that would make you feel better."

 

John was about to tell him that no, making a number up wouldn't do anything for his confidence when the ringing was cut off as someone on the other end of the line picked up the phone.

 

"This had better be important," General O'Neil snapped, sounding worn, which surprised John since the General wasn't the sort who let anything get to him.

 

"This is Colonel Sheppard, sir."

 

"John?" O'Neil said, his voice wary with disbelief and what sounded like faint hope.

 

"Yes, sir. I'm just calling to check in and let you know that I was able to get out of the situation I found myself in at the last minute. I was, however, injured in the process and find myself in need of medical leave time."

 

"Of course, John, you can have as much time as you want. Where are you? I'll send a plane for you.” There was a flurry of whispering and odd beeping noises in the background that then O’Neil said, “Sam can't get a fix on your location for some reason."

 

John smirked at that, "She can't get a fix, sir, because I don't want her to. You see, I find myself inclined to recuperate away from Colorado Springs and with your permission I will remain where I am until my injuries, mainly my broken leg, have healed well enough that I feel capable of returning to duty."

 

"Colonel," the General said, sounding surprised, "Are you thinking clearly? Do you need help? Are you able to speak freely?"

 

"Sir, I am thinking very clearly; I have all the help I need; and I always speak freely, surely you've noticed, sir?"

 

"I'm not going to pretend I understand what it is you're doing, John."

 

"I wouldn't ask you to, sir. Do I have your permission?"

 

The General heaved a sigh, "You do. You are getting a doctor to look at your leg?"

 

"Of course, sir, but I doubt that questioning all of the doctors in the world who treat broken legs will help you find me."

 

"I thought it might be worth an effort," O'Neil said, and this time John could hear him smiling, "But as usual you remind me a little too uncannily of myself. You will explain this to me someday?"

 

"Yes, sir," John said with a smile of his own.

 

"John," Rodney hissed, tapping the clock impatiently.

 

"Well, I really must be going. Give my best to my team and tell Dr. Jackson to avoid being kidnapped until I'm back on duty."

 

"John …"

 

John set the phone back in its cradle, ending the call, and cutting of O'Neil's words.

 

"You do realize that your little password thing was completely crackable," Rodney said, tossing the clock carelessly onto the sofa.

 

"And you would guess right off the bat that my ID code was a base four Kaprekar constant and it's factors because … I just look like that sort of guy?" John needled, grabbing his crutches and stuffing them back under his arms.

 

Rodney opened his mouth and after a moment closed it again.

 

John had already gotten settled back on the sofa by the time Rodney's voice caught up with him and he said, "I feel I should inform you that the fact you know what a Kaprekar constant is makes you unbearably hot."

 

John turned and stared at Rodney, this time discovering he was the one unable to find words. Not that Rodney noticed.

 

"I'm going to go make myself a waffle. Do you want one?" Rodney said, as if the fact he'd just said John was, and I quote, "hot," quite ordinary conversation.

 

"You only have toaster waffles," John managed to choke out.

 

"So?" Rodney said, eyeing him like he'd grown an extra head from the kitchen doorway, "You've never minded them before."

 

"You had a toaster before."

 

**ooo…ooo**

 

Leaning back on the hospital bed, John sighed. He hated check-ups, but they were a necessary evil. Or so he told himself when Carson was once again dithering about how he needed blood for some test or another. John didn't actually like getting his blood sucked out of his veins, even in the name of medicine. Perhaps, he reflected, he'd watched one too many vampire movies as a child. And that Russian horror novel he'd read last week probably hadn't helped things. He'd never actually considered that blood donations could be a source of food set up by vampires for vampires. That idea could be summed up in one word: creepy.

 

"I told you that book wouldn't do you any good," Rodney said, as Carson prepped a needle.

 

John glared balefully at him and then petulantly crossed his arms over his chest, pretending to ignore him. Rodney gently laid a large, warm hand on John's elbow.

 

"Don't worry," he whispered, leaning in close to John's ear, "I won't let the evil vampires get you."

 

John felt a blush coloring up his cheeks, triggered by an odd combination of the words and the sensation of hot breath on his cheek. Last week was still fresh in his memory and the fact Rodney thought he was 'hot' seemed to be consuming his thoughts. Everything Rodney said now was shaded with an unspoken 'I want you' that John worried he was imagining.

 

"Now, lads, let's save the sweet nothings for home," Carson said, coming over and pulling John's arm out, so that he could tap at the vein on the inside of his elbow.

 

"Rodney started it," John replied immediately, feeling a childish need to extricate himself from blame (and really Rodney had started it).

 

Carson grinned and shook his head as he wiped down the inside of the elbow with a sterilizing swab.

 

"Did not," Rodney retorted, sounding, if possible, even more childish than John had.

 

"Did too." John couldn't let Rodney get the last word in, after all, then he might think he could do that all of the time.

 

"Did not!"

 

"Did too!"

 

"I absolutely did not."

 

"Well, you're mistaken because you did too."

 

"I'd say you two argue like a pair of school boys, but I suppose it'd be more accurate to say like an old married couple," Carson interjected, cutting off their dialogue.

 

Rodney blushed at that. As well he should since he had been the one to insist that telling Carson the truth was a bad idea. At least not until John was back on his feet and didn't need Carson to treat him anymore.

 

Carson put the needle next to John's skin as John stared on in morbid fascination.

 

"You want to watch, son?" Carson asked, since John had made it a habit of not looking.

 

John shook his head and turned toward Rodney as he felt a sharp prick in his elbow. Rodney grinned crookedly at him.

 

"You just think about it too much, cupcake," Rodney whispered leaning in close, "Try thinking about something else."

 

"Oh, yeah, because for some reason the fact I have a needle in my arm isn't at the top of my list of things to think about," John snapped. He really didn't like getting his blood drawn and he knew he'd be upset that he snapped later, but Rodney would forgive him. He always did.

 

Rodney tired to quirk an eyebrow at him and failed miserably, which made him unfathomably appealing in a rather incompetent way. Rodney leaned in close, so that their noses were almost touching, and he was dominating John's field of vision. John felt his heart beat pick up slightly at how very McKay it was for Rodney to leave John with nothing else to look at.

 

"Try thinking about this," Rodney said, and before John could ask what ‘it’ was he was supposed to think about Rodney tilted his head and bridged the space left between them with a kiss.

 

John froze with shock as Rodney simply let his lips rest against John's in a kiss that seemed as if it should have been their thousandth, not their first. Rodney had his eyes closed, but John could barely shake off his paralysis enough to remember that he needed to breathe, much less close his eyes (or actually bother with the breathing thing). Rodney moved back a fraction of an inch; just enough to separate their lips and John took a shallow, and rather gasping breath that would have thoroughly embarrassed him had he not been far to enraptured to care.

 

Rodney still had his eyes closed, but it didn't seem he was planning to kiss John again and that struck John as a rather terrible thing. In fact, as a rather unfair and desperately upsetting thing, luckily before he could break off into pain-ridden angst, John remembered he could move too. So with a desperate jerk of motion he clumsily stretched his free hand toward Rodney. It collided with Rodney's chest and from there John slid it up Rodney's shoulder and neck to fit it snugly against his cheek, where his fingers could splay out over the warm skin. Rodney's eyes flickered open and John couldn't find the words to describe what he saw, so he settled on a phrase he was fairly sure he'd stolen from some of the awful romance novels he'd read on that never ending stake out from hell: Rodney's eyes were like bottomless oceans that John wanted to swim in forever. It was odd how apt cliché descriptions could be for some things, John mused hazily. John was about to lean in to press a kiss to Rodney’s parted lips when he was jolted back to reality by Carson.

 

"And we're done," Carson said, sounding pleased, although about what John couldn't figure since the words startled him out of the peace Rodney had lulled him into and that wasn't pleasing at all.

 

John and Rodney both pulled back simultaneously, studiously avoiding each other's gaze. Or at least, John was avoiding Rodney's gaze and Rodney seemed to be busy brushing at invisible stains on his shirt (which was totally avoidance in John's book).

 

John turned to stare at Carson and was about to say, ‘Done with what?’ when he noticed that the needle in his skin had been replaced with a band-aid and he hadn't even noticed. He really couldn't let Rodney know that.

 

**ooo...ooo**

 

Rodney didn’t say a word (or even look at John) the entire taxi ride home, effectively leaving John trapped between false starts and cautious jitters. They had kissed. John wanted to do it again (repeatedly and with frequency, if at all possible), but he had no idea how to tell Rodney that. Usually if a relationship was this complicated John wouldn’t bother because a few dates couldn’t be worth the trouble. But John could feel it deep down in the way he literally ached for Rodney’s touch, glance, smile, anything, that this would be anything but casual and by the same token eminently worthwhile.

 

Rodney helped John back up the stairs, casually supporting him with his hand on John’s back or elbow, allowing John’s nerve endings to slowly burn the touch into his skin.

 

As soon as the front door was open, Rodney barged in and made a beeline straight into his bedroom (the only place in the apartment John had never been). Unable to tell if that was his cue to follow or to stay away, John sank down on his over used couch and heaved his throbbing leg up on the coffee table. Tilting his head back against the cushions, John closed his eyes and allowed himself to remember the kiss. Rodney had wanted it, of that much John was sure, but did Rodney want more? Well, he obviously should since John was quite the catch (according to Elizabeth, although she may have been talking more in terms of his ATA gene, but John wasn’t going to be picky), but Rodney never did seem to do what John expected him to.

 

“Does your leg hurt?” Rodney said, voice unusually soft as he seated himself next to John on the couch and carefully laid a hand over his cast. John felt his face flush in embarrassment at how desperately he wished he could feel Rodney’s hand through the plaster.

 

Apparently taking that for a yes (and it did actually hurt), Rodney fondly said, “You’re such an idiot,” actually pausing to ruffle John’s hair before pushing himself back off the couch. “Let me go get you some Tylenol.”

 

John thought his hair might be conducting a violin party of it’s own to mourn the loss of Rodney’s touch, but the rest of John was fighting down the urge to grab Rodney’s shirttail, drag him back down to the couch, and, sort of, (in the most manly way possible) launch a kisses attack.

 

Rodney shuffled back into the room with his trusty Tylenol bottle and a glass of water. Rodney shook two of the oblong pills onto his wide palm and offered them to John. In a moment of pure insight and supreme one-ness with the world (or some spiritual wishful thinking, one or the other), John realized that Rodney was actually offering him much more than painkillers. Rodney was asking John to accept his hand, in a show of trust (at least John was pretty sure that’s what Elizabeth had told him about negotiating with natives). Not one to waste time when riding the wave of ultimate knowledge John skipped the hand thing and instead grabbed Rodney’s collar and pressed their lips together in a searing kiss.

 

Rodney would later claim that he had really only been offering John the Tylenol, but John wasn’t buying it. The guy had been baring his wrists for crying out loud.

 

**ooo…ooo**

John was still finding Tylenol pills in odd places from when Rodney had dropped the entire bottle in favor of putting John’s hair in a death grip, but he figured that it was worth it. And his hair had entirely agreed.

 

Unfortunately, in spite of both of their rather pathetic attempts at courting (which while pathetic always ended in spectacular sex, so no one could really complain much), the time for John’s cast to be removed was rapidly drawing near.

 

And by rapidly, John meant tomorrow, but he was really trying not to think about it. He was currently ensconced in Rodney’s lab, trying to suppress a grin while listening to Rodney rip into one of his grad students.

 

“Morons,” Rodney groused, heaving a giant put upon sigh as he settled back down into the chair next to John, “They’re just everywhere. I’m waging a losing battle, aren’t I?”

 

John made a non-committal noise and pretended to focus on his game of minesweeper.

 

Rodney slid a hand onto John’s inner thigh, startling him into accidentally setting off a mine.

 

“You did that on purpose,” John pouted, closing out the game and turning his eyes to Rodney, who looked unfairly hot in his white lab coat.

 

Rodney quirked him a half-grin, that John just had to kiss, because seriously lopsided smiles are surprisingly sexy.

 

John grabbed ineffectually at Rodney, when he pulled away far too soon, but was hindered by his still encased leg and the fact that Rodney had a rolly chair (which was totally cheating).

 

Rodney started randomly stacking up files and closing laptops, so John decided not to complain because that generally meant it was time to be going home.

 

“So, have you bought your plane ticket back to Colorado, yet?” Rodney asked, his voice far too casual.

 

John swallowed hard, finding it hard to breathe around the lump that had instantly formed in his throat. He didn’t like to remember that this was all too temporary.

 

“No,” he finally said, “I think … I think that I can get my commanding officer to call a base near here and get a jet for me to fly back myself.” John didn’t want to think about what flying away from Rodney would be like. He didn’t want to think about whether he’d even be able to do it at all.

 

“And that’ll be it,” Rodney said, his voice tight and his back resolutely turned to John, “You’ll fly off and I’ll never see you again.”

 

Those words hit John, harsh and crystalline, biting worse than bullets. It took him a minute before he whispered into the frigid air between them, “But I love you.”

 

And that was how John ended up in his first this-is-going-to-work-or-there-will-be-hell-to-pay long distance relationship.

**ooo…ooo**

Needless to say Cam Mitchell thought it was all manner of amusing. He liked to sit at lunch with John and quiz him up about his _boyfriend_ over the burnt macaroni and cheese.

 

Actually SG1 in general (both present and former members) was giving him hell for the boyfriend thing. John was quite sure he’d never blushed more at a military installation in his entire life (including when he accidentally gotten himself sold into slavery and had to be brought back through the gate with a freaking collar on (a collar, oh the humanity!)) than he had in the weeks since he’d returned to duty.

 

The only person who was even pretending to have a sense of propriety about the whole thing was Elizabeth, which John wholeheartedly appreciated. Of course, he figured the reason she was being so considerate was to guilt him into keeping his place on the Atlantis expedition. John honestly wanted to go (seriously, ancients equal excitement, lost city of ancients equal beyond awesome), but now that he and Rodney were calling three times a week and emailing constantly …

 

How could John ever give that up (even for ancients)?

 

**ooo…ooo**

John was sitting on the edge of his seat, literally bouncing from impatience. Normally John was a laid back guy (or so he liked to think), but he couldn’t pull it off today, not with Rodney coming. Rodney!!

 

His plane was due to land in thirty minutes and John was going to have to speed like crazy as it was to pick him up on time. Seriously, how would it look if he invited his one true love to visit him in the freezing wilds of the Rockies and didn’t pick him up? John wanted out of this ridiculous meeting and he wanted out **now**. It’s not like John had anything to say about possible candidates to lead the Atlantis science team, especially seeing as he wasn’t even going on the expedition any more. Still Elizabeth hadn’t given up hope on him changing his mind (thus the reason for his presence at this meeting). Sam was droning on about some Czech guy with a strong physics and computer science background, and while normally John liked her talking better than most people, he was about to start climbing the walls.

 

“Oh, for crying out loud,” General O’Neil burst out, cutting Sam off to level a finger in John’s direction, “Go on and get out of here already. Mitchell’s probably about to pull his hair out wondering where you are.”

 

“Mitchell?” John said, bewildered.

 

“Well, who do you think we put in charge of taking you to pick up this fellow of yours. We figured Mitchell would speed less and supply a goodly amount of offended southern charm if he tries to grope you in public. Now shoo, any more bouncing and this eye twitch you’re giving me is going to become permanent.”

 

Five minutes later after being whisked through security faster than ever before (apparently the whole base had been conspiring to get John to the airport on time without him even noticing), John found himself in the passenger seat of a four-wheel drive jeep, heading down the mountain.

 

Cam had only smirked knowingly at John as Teal’c had practically spoon fed him into the car. John made a mental note to keep a better eye on SG1 because they were much sneakier than he gave them credit for.

 

They actually got to the airport on time and in one piece. It was a pure miracle given Mitchell’s lousy driving skills and propensity for the country music station.

 

As they stood at the arrivals gate, John felt like he was on the verge of combusting from all the Rodney happiness running along his veins. It had been two months since they’d said goodbye and John had felt Rodney’s absence constantly like a chipped tooth that he couldn’t help running his tongue over again and again, even though it hurt like a bitch each time.

 

When he spotted Rodney, John may have made a slightly squeaky noise that could be interpreted as girly, but Cam didn’t comment, so John put him back in his good book (in spite of the horrific music tastes). For all that Cam was the official protector of John’s virtue, he allowed a goodly amount of kissing, groping, and embarrassing declarations of love before he tactfully cleared his throat and broke up the party.

 

“I’m Colonel Cameron Mitchell,” he said, politely extending his hand to Rodney, who had to drop his death grip on John’s wrist in order to accept it.

 

“I’m Rodney.”

 

John waited for the inevitable amendment of Rodney’s three doctorates and was surprised when it didn’t come. He caught Rodney’s eyes and realized that for what had to be the first time ever, he was seeing Rodney worried about what someone thought of him. John was touched, but seeing as Mitchell was totally replaceable (air force colonels were crawling out of the woodwork all over the SGC) and Rodney wasn’t, he just wanted his snarky scientist back.

 

“Dr. Rodney McKay, actually,” John announced, beaming in a way that was probably akin to parents discussing awards their children had won, “He has three doctorates.”

 

Cam broke out in a smile so big that John would have been decidedly creeped out had O’Neil not made it clear Cam was there for southern charm and lack of speeding tickets only.

 

“I work with John,” Mitchell said to Rodney, “I hope you don’t mind putting off getting back to John’s place, but a few of his work buddies have been looking forward to meeting you and we want to take you out to dinner.”

 

“What!?!” John spluttered, completely caught off guard.

 

“It was General O’Neil’s idea,” Cam said, pulling his innocent puppy eyes. “You’ll come right?” He said, turning to Rodney.

 

“Sure …” Rodney answered hesitantly, his hand reattaching itself to John’s arm with renewed vigor.

 

The only blessing was that Sam couldn’t make it and, thus, spared the assembled party an in depth physics argument. Still, John now had a substantial list of people he needed to ‘repay’ for their kind interest in Rodney. It hadn’t been all bad though. Rodney had been wound so tight on self-consciousness by the time they got back to John’s apartment, he’d literally jumped John against the wall. And who wouldn’t like that?

 

**ooo….ooo**

 

John was called in the next day due to an emergency involving the Ori, a supergate, and some sort of off world Jaffa emergency. He’d been forced to abandon Rodney to the dubious pleasures of his living room sofa and the TV, while he hightailed it in to help save the world again. Of course, he made sure to do a significant amount of grumbling whenever O’Neil or Landry were around, so hopefully they wouldn’t have any more ‘emergencies’ while Rodney was here. After Jackson had deciphered some tablet and Sam had done some calculations, he and Cam helpfully blew the bothersome supergate up before it could really get together. That didn’t solve the Teal’c caught up in Jaffa council emergency thing, but John figured there was only so much you could do in two hours.

 

“God, I need a drink,” Sam said theatrically falling into her briefing room chair.

 

“No kidding,” John agreed.

 

“You guys want to go out after the debriefing?” Sam asked.

 

“Why not?” Mitchell drawled, “Daniel can come too. John, however, has other other plans.”

 

“Oh?” Sam said, questioningly.

 

“You’ve forgotten, his _boyfriend_ is here,” Cam said liltingly, “He’s probably itching to get back to him.”

 

John felt his face turning a dull shade of red.

 

“You should meet him, Sam,” Cam continued, “he’s something else, that good ol’ Dr. McKay, right Shep?”

 

John was about to retort with a singularly well thought out hand gesture, when Sam literally bolted up in her chair.

 

“Dr. McKay!” She cried. 

 

“Yeah,” John answered, rather bewildered, “Dr. Rodney McKay. And he _is_ brilliant.”

 

“I know,” Sam said, her voice taking on an excited verging on gushing quality that was rather disturbing coming from Sam, “He’s the one we wanted. You know, to lead the Atlantis science team, but he turned us down flat. He said that he had more important things in his life than science, which didn’t match with what his file said at all. But this completely explains it. Do you realize what this means, John? You guys, both of you, you could go to Atlantis, together. With your gene and his brain, it would be … just brilliant,” Sam practically dove across the table to grab John’s shock limp hands off the table, “You have to convince him to go John. It’s Atlantis.”

 

**ooo…ooo**

It was a little bit weird being the only married couple on the expedition, but true to Sam’s prediction, it was pretty brilliant.

 

 

The End

 


End file.
